


love love or whatever, take a number

by chandrasekhar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Self-Destructive Behavior, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chandrasekhar/pseuds/chandrasekhar
Summary: He remembers being fifteen and kissing Natalia on the mouth — her pretty purple dress, the taste of chapstick on his tongue, a giddy feeling in his chest, wearing a shoe two sizes too big for his feet. Or maybe hedreamsthat, dreams that he stays and she stays, and nothing ever changes, that years on the road and she won’t be the only friend he has because everyone else left, because he pushed away every single person who’s ever cared for him.(alternatively: the years come and go, and Bucky Barnes’ spiral downwards never seems to end.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the poem Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, by Richard Siken
> 
> I should be focusing on works I've already started but, alas, here's this ~~i'm sorry i don't make the rules ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯~~
> 
> all mistakes are mine, and english isn't my mother language, so there's that?  
> either way, I hope you enjoy this~

He’s been standing by the balcony for a while already, staring up to a starless sky, when Natalia shows up. She’s been doing that a lot lately, and he doesn’t want to search for hidden meanings behind her actions — doesn’t want to acknowledge any other truth than the one he’s sticking to.

“This way you’ll end up dead.” Natalia says, stopping by his side, bright red hair cascading down her shoulder, fingernails long and painted black, and she’s both the most beautiful and terrifying woman he has ever met.

Still, he shrugs, looks away and blows smoke to the sky, pretending that the cigarette doesn’t feel heavy in between his fingers, that the taste in his mouth isn’t bitter. Natalia’s right, she always is and has always been, but it has never stopped him before.

“I’m serious, James. You gotta slow down at some point.”

They’ve been friends for years already — he considers her friendship the one last precious thing he’s got, which is the sole reason he turns to look at her. He’s not talkative today, he rarely is, but he owes her more than he can ever even dream of paying back. Natalia has never had to put up with him, with any of his shit, and yet, here she is. Crack-ass late in the night, the cold wind blowing on their faces, and here she is.

“This _is_ me slowing down, Natalia.” he answers, voice rough from disuse, and it’s not that he doesn’t know he doesn’t really deserve her, anyway, but having her lift one single perfect eyebrow at his words still kind of feels like a punch in the gut. “M’ sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

He is, but this battle is as good as lost, so he doesn’t argue.

 _Natasha_ , she had told him some time ago. She doesn’t go by Natalia anymore. Hasn’t in a long time. He keeps slipping, and she has all the right to be angry.

“James.” she calls him, voice uncharacteristically soft, and though he knows she would never hurt him, flinching away from her when she reaches out is the reaction set as default on his brain. “Give me the cigarette.”

He does. Passes it to her without hesitation, heart skipping a beat.

His hand hurts — he feels small, raw, nerves exposed like a bared electric wire, and the feeling is almost analog to being dunked in cold water.

He wishes he could say it’s the first time. It is not. It won’t be the last, either.

“There.” Natalia — _Natasha_ — says, and he doesn’t know, hadn’t been paying attention, but she’s got rid of the cigarette. “Gone. Okay?”

Not okay, he wants to say, but nods, not trusting himself to speak, not trusting his voice not to break middle-sentence.

“James.”

Not okay, he still wants to say. His hands are shaking.

“ _Bucky_.”

He looks up – straight into her eyes, which are locked onto his face.

"You gotta slow down at some point." she repeats, slowly, and he knows what she means, even though she doesn't say it, won’t say it. _I don't want to be the one they'll call when they have to recognize your corpse_. Natasha is still talking "-don't, but I know some people-"

"No." comes out before he even thinks of it.

No.

"Just this once. And if you don't enjoy yourself, I'll never speak about it with you again. You'll never need to come back. Okay?"

He weighs it down in his mind. The wind keeps blowing. Natalia stares, and waits, and his heart beats wildly against his ribcage, more terrified than it ought to be.

"Okay."

(The taste of nicotine is stuck on the back of his throat. The burn in his hand is still hurting. _Nothing_ is okay.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter \Õ still pretty short, and vague plotwise, but the muse has decided where to go with this (in some aspects) and I'm working on it :3
> 
> all mistakes are mine, and english isn't my mother language, so there's that?  
> I hope you enjoy this~

He remembers being fifteen and kissing Natalia on the mouth — her pretty purple dress, the taste of chapstick on his tongue, a giddy feeling in his chest, wearing a shoe two sizes too big for his feet. Or maybe he _dreams_ that, dreams that he stays and she stays, and nothing ever changes, that years on the road and she won’t be the only friend he has because everyone else left, because he pushed away every single person who’s ever cared for him.

He draws an imaginary line. Insides, outsides. There are days he doesn’t know if he’s worth it, and there are days he _knows_ he’s not. There is an entire _life_ between whomever he is right now and Bucky Barnes — because Bucky was already kind of messed up, yes, but above all he was _loyal_. Bucky Barnes would never hurt those he cared about, would rather _die_ than even thinking about it. But here’s the thing: he can’t make himself stop, can’t slow down, doesn’t even know _how to_ , not anymore, not after running around in circles for so long.

Natasha knows this. He knows Natasha knows this. And none of them stayed. Not her, still Natalia, with stars in her eyes, and not Bucky Barnes, still näive enough to believe in happy endings. And maybe that changed _everything_ , but maybe that changed _nothing_ , and here’s another thing: no matter how hard he’s tried, he’s falling apart. Has been falling apart for _years_ , and at this point it feels like there’s nothing to salvage anymore. That’s the single truth, the one maybe Natasha can’t wrap her head around, maybe doesn’t _want to_ , the one he tried kicking in the face before life brought back onto him with a vengeance.

Why does she even care? He can’t even pinpoint and tell her what went wrong, or _when_ , can’t even begin to comprehend what triggers it and the urge to _hurt_ , the knowledge that he doesn’t matter, that _none of this_ matters, that his life has been nothing but a series of messy tragedies and unfunny jokes piled all on top of each other and he, James Buchanan Barnes, has never deserved a nice or kind thing one day in his entire _life_. He’s scattered all over the place, pieces of his self-control slipping from his insides like broken glass cutting through skin, body always tight with tension and that’s _tiring_. He’s tired. And Natasha, for all she does know and all she pretends to know about him, doesn’t understand that — that he doesn’t want to try anymore, that maybe there’s nothing left, that the Bucky Barnes she knew died in prom night twelve years ago and there’s nothing either of them can do to bring him back, not because she didn’t try hard enough but because you can’t fix a thing that doesn’t want to be fixed.

In the end, that’s all it comes down to, isn’t it?

  


“You’re staring.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. It’s cold already. Bitter, even though he has always preferred it sweet. It’s a surprise he even had anything in his cupboards at all.

He takes another sip. Has it been minutes? Hours? He isn’t sure. Natasha stopped talking at some point, and he can’t say when. She notices this, like she always notices everything, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even sigh, doesn’t even let him know that once again he’s failed at barely attempting to be a functional human being. Truth be told, he _was_ staring. But not for the reasons she might think, not because he’s pondering over what he agreed to, or because he’s nervous, or because he wants to map out her face and search for her past self in between the carefully constructed personality of Natasha Romanoff.

No. No, it’s something far less important than that.

Her hair is red. He isn’t sure he’s ever stopped to notice that before. It has always been red. Not like a vase full of carnations that someone loved too much to throw away even after they wilted and died. Not like blood, thick and coppery, dripping down his chin onto the carpet, a dark stain he never managed to clean up. Not like a split lip, or lipstick, not like the color he sees sometimes when he presses his hands too hard against his eyes. It is, has always been — gentler than that, somehow. Softer. Lighter.

Flame like.

“I like your hair.” he tells her.

 

(He wants another cigarette. Insides. Outsides. The line is barely there at all. Natasha tilts her head in confusion, but never asks. He doesn’t say.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lines about insides/outsides are references to The Way The Light Reflects, by ~~guess who~~ Richard Siken :3

**Author's Note:**

> I do plan on writing more, I'm just not sure when or where my muse's going to take me with this, hence the lack of tags.


End file.
